


Educated Guess

by brittleblossoms



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Crack, Humor, Multi, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5947702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittleblossoms/pseuds/brittleblossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Risk assessment was always really just an educated guess.</p><p>And while you excelled at it, you didn't hit the mark 100% of the time.</p><p>Whoops.</p><p>[reader x surprise]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Educated Guess

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry that i'm not sorry for this. i am actually sorry that i'm probably not as funny as I think I am. 
> 
> this may or may not be based something my coworkers and i have done in the past. 
> 
> my writing tumblr is brittleblossoms, by the way.

You know the risks. 

Risks are something you’re good at. In fact, your risk assessment is almost legendary in the First Order. Most of it is undeserved. You’re good, but the rumors make you out as almost a seer. Mainly because one time you walked into a room, took one look at Kylo Ren, and walked right out again. It took the repairs crew six days to repair the tech bay he’d destroyed seconds after the door closed behind you. It’s flattering, but a little over the top. Sometimes your assessment is off—no one is perfect, you least of all—but you bat a rate of good judgment so high that it convinces even General Hux to promote you. (He does, however, demand that you retake weapons with Captain Phasma. Your shooting skills are abysmal and, apparently, unbefitting of a superior officer. It’s a deal you’re willing to make. Phasma is more attractive than you’d care to admit.) 

So yes, you know the risks. You’ve gone over them several times, ever since FN-2460 had tentatively approached you with an idea. You like FN-2460. She’s full of ideas. Perhaps not the best thing to be in the First Order, where individuality is frowned upon, but good enough for you. And though you’ve agreed with the idea, you’re not as certain as usual. 

It’s a good idea, you remind yourself. It certainly won’t hurt anyone. In fact, it may even help, since tense people make stupid decisions. The mission is simple enough: accompany Kylo Ren to a meeting with a bunch of Ambassadors that will likely be too terrified to say anything. Apparently your presence is required so there’s some semblance of good judgment in the room. You desperately hope that no one has mentioned that particular tidbit to Lord Ren. 

“You’re sure?” FN-1813 asks, peering at you cautiously. 

“Yes,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “I’ve told you, it’s unlikely that there will be an issue.” 

“But there’s still a chance.” 

“Stars,” you hiss out, sharing a look with FN-2460. “This is supposed to be about relaxing to get through the night with Lord Ren. If it’s making you worse, just leave. Go finish final preparations.” One of the other ‘troopers—you don’t know their designation, it’s the first time they’ve been assigned to you—snickers under their breath. 

FN-1813 gets to his feet. “Officer,” he says, saluting you before putting his helmet back over his blushing face. 

You point at him. “You can go, but if you snitch, I’ll find you.” He nods hurriedly and disappears out the door. You wait for it to slide closed behind him. “Anyone else?” No one moves. “Okay then. Just remember: enough to relax.” 

In hindsight, you should have known your luck was about to run out. You’d made good calls on the last 17 judgments you were required for; it was about time for a failure. But Kylo Ren made you nervous; you were the first to admit it. And you didn’t always make the best decisions when you were nervous. 

Which, honestly, is probably exactly why the door slides open to reveal General Hux just as you light the joint balanced between your lips. 

The ‘troopers scatter. You don’t blame them. 

Hux stares at you, pursing his lips. You figure you’re already fucked, so you draw deep and huff out the smoke through your nostrils before getting to your feet. “General,” you say, the word muffled around the tip of the joint. Your salute is crisp and perfect. 

But there’s red crawling up the side of Hux’s pale neck. You hurriedly pull the joint from your mouth as he grits out your title and name. 

“Sir,” you say quickly, noting his long-fingered hands clenching into fists at his side. “Let me explain-“ 

“Silence,” Hux snaps out. “Fulfill your current duties and then report to me for your disciplinary measures.” 

You open your mouth to protest—okay, maybe there’s something going on in the constellations tonight, this is terrible risk assessment for you—but Hux’s piercing eyes warn you that you’re about to make a huge mistake. You snap your mouth shut again. He lets his eyes trail over you, his lips pursing with disdain. Then he pivots on his heel—you can’t help but admire the perfectly executed maneuver—and exits. 

You wait until the door slides shut behind his impeccably dressed figure before slumping against the wall and exhaling through your nose. That could have been an actual disaster and there's probably only one reason that it wasn't. 

You've never been so thankful that you're fucking Hux. 

Even if you’re probably going to be very, very sore tomorrow.


End file.
